


home is (a fistful of lightning)

by conchorde



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: (some of them anyway), Angst, Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Found Family and Other Things That Make Zuko Happy, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Ozai (Avatar) Being a Terrible Parent, Zuko coming to terms with his past, Zuko's Scar (Avatar), obligatory gaang finds out about zuko’s scar fic, zuko thinks he knows what home is. he is wrong.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:34:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25513624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/conchorde/pseuds/conchorde
Summary: Zuko cannot go home.He stands on the deck of his ship, the air growing ever colder, and he longs for nothing more than the warm embrace of the Fire Nation. He cannot go home, he reminds himself. But, spirits. He wants nothing more.[Or; lessons concerning trauma, reclaiming the past, and the changing definition of home.]
Relationships: The Gaang & Zuko (Avatar)
Comments: 44
Kudos: 1203
Collections: AtLA <10k fics to read, Stuff I liked, TheReallyGoodOnes, best of avatar, zuko best boi





	home is (a fistful of lightning)

**Author's Note:**

> Five vignettes, I told myself. That's all this will be. Right?
> 
> I was wrong. Zuko's baggage takes longer to unpack than that.

i.

Fire Prince Zuko cannot go home.

Truth. Fact. Set in stone.

As he stands on the deck of his ship, the air growing ever colder, he longs for nothing more than the warm embrace of the Fire Nation.

Home is tapestries of long-dead ancestors, staring daggers down from the walls. Home is servants bringing him tea and playmates and silly trinkets. Home is Lu Ten, smiling. Home is Azula, stealing his knife and laughing when his bending fails. Home is Mother, her tinkling voice resting like a cloak on his shoulders as they feed the turtleducks together.

( _Home is Father, reaching out as if to caress his cheek. Home is his knees on the cold stone floor. Home is a fistful of flames._ )

He stands at the helm. The sea spray ices the deck. He is only sixteen, but his bones ache.

He must find the Avatar.

ii.

“Father regrets your banishment,” his sister says, getting to the point. “He wants you home.”

Zuko’s heart drops through his chest.

Uncle drags his feet. Zuko packs. The word thrums through his mind, through his veins. Three years, lost. Finally, _finally_.

Azula’s boat is tiny on the rocks below.

_Home home home—_

The guard says the wrong words, and Zuko’s heart drops through his chest, again.

He fights with everything he has. Fire comes quick and fast. _Azula always lies_. When she points two fingers at him, and electricity crackles the air, _isn’t it like being home_? He almost closes his eyes.

Uncle grabs her hand and redirects the cold fire.

iii.

Zuko watches his shorn hair float down the river. _Father wants you home_ echoes in his veins, followed by _Azula always lies_. One pulse, two. He turns it over in his chest and tries to lock it away.

He cannot go home, he reminds himself. But, _spirits_. He wants nothing more.

iv.

The knife stays on the ground of the Earth Kingdom village. Zuko leaves the family behind and their tiny ramshackle home.

How can _that_ be a home? Where are the banners? The servants at one’s beck and call? There are not long, imposing halls, lined with the condescending glare of Zuko’s ancestors. There is no glory in that dirt-poor village. The soldiers play at honor, but they are little more than thieves and bullies. But— _Agni_ —the boy’s parents cared for him.

He tries and tries and _tries_ to reconcile the differences. He makes concessions to himself, lies to his soul. There cannot be a home in the scrublands. There cannot be a home with—with _love_.

Hunger gnaws at his stomach. His mouth tastes like dust, and shame.

v.

After Azula’s attack, Uncle heals. Zuko heals, too. Some part of him mends, even though Azula missed him time and time again. A weight lifts from his shoulders, and he doesn’t know what it is. He is _not_ home.

Uncle teaches redirection. They step through the motions for hours at a time. Uncle drinks tea, and Zuko grows restless.

The lightning does not strike him down from the top of the mountain.

vi.

“We can build a new life for ourselves, Prince Zuko,” Uncle says one evening, warming a cup of tea in his hands. “Ba Sing Se is accepting refugees.”

Zuko sets his mouth in a thin line. “We are not _refugees_.”

Uncle puts his tea down and looks at him in that unsettling way he does sometimes, like he can see through his nephew and fifty years beyond into greatness. He says carefully, “Refugees cannot go to their old homes. They must begin anew.”

He stares at the ground. He doesn’t look at Uncle. He can’t.

vii.

When the great walls of Ba Sing Se, which even the Dragon of the West could not conquer, come into vision, something flickers in Zuko’s chest.

viii.

Fire Prince Zuko—no, not anymore, just Zuko, now—knows the floor at the teashop in the slums of Ba Sing Se is uneven. He steps carefully, weaving between tables.

(Uncle always smiles at the customers, jovial. Asking after the regulars, sliding treats conspiratorially across the counter. Zuko—Zuko cannot.)

The tray is heavy in his hands. Jasmine tea steeps in the hot water, tiny mooncakes gracefully arranged. Zuko took his time. They are artfully spaced. The corner of his mouth ticks upward.

It happens quickly.

Uncle calls something out to him from the kitchen. He turns to look. His toe catches on the gray-white stone. The teapot shatters on the floor.

“ _Spirits_!” the nobleman at the table cries, standing, shaking out his tunic. His shoes grind the ceramic to dust. The miniature mooncakes roll to a stop, and Zuko mourns. “How _could_ you! You foolish boy—”

Zuko’s head snaps to the left. The slap stings, one heartbeat later, and the shame rushes in.

“Your manners are despicable,” mutters the nobleman. He pushes his tea-soaked coat on. Uncle pulls Zuko back.

Uncle is a myriad of words. Placating, pleading. They wash over Zuko. “I’m sure he didn’t mean any offense—”

Zuko brushes off Uncle as soon as the words _you must teach your tea boy to show some respect_ cross the nobleman’s lips. The words of another man three years ago burn in Zuko’s ears, and his breath freezes in his chest. He steps around the scattered mooncakes, out the front door, and goes to their apartment as fast as he can. The moon rises and the stars blink into existence and Uncle comes home—comes _back_ —and Zuko can breathe again.

Uncle hums under his breath when he brews tea.

All Zuko can smell is jasmine. His cheek throbs.

ix.

Beneath the lake, Zuko stares down the first step to his ticket home: the Avatar’s enormous bison. It stares at him right back, and rears, chains rattling.

Uncle arrives, and Zuko takes off the mask with a sigh. There’s a level in Uncle’s voice a moment later that he doesn’t hear often, and Zuko remembers that he is his father’s brother.

“I _have_ to do this,” Zuko insists _._ The words feel hollow on his tongue.

Uncle shakes his head. “It’s time to look inward,” he demands. The bison’s giant eyes bore holes into Zuko. “What do _you_ want?”

He—he wants—

He doesn’t know, anymore.

x.

The Avatar’s bison rises into the sky.

xi.

“Leave it behind,” Uncle says, and the mask of the Blue Spirit floats to the bottom of Lake Laogai.

Uncle didn’t mean just the mask. Zuko screws his eyes shut, and tries to reconcile what he’s been taught with reality. He feels Uncle put his hand on his shoulder. For once, he doesn’t flinch.

Together, they turn towards Ba Sing Se.

xii.

They throw open the doors to the Jasmine Dragon after Zuko’s fever clears. His body feels lighter than it has in years.

“You seem happy, Uncle,” Zuko says as he assembles a tray of oolong tea in the kitchen. He reaches for the right tea leaves with practiced ease, sets the teacups just so.

Uncle’s expression glows as he looks at Zuko. “It must be the fresh air.”

Zuko picks up the tray. “I added a mooncake to this order. I hope that’s okay.”

“Of course,” Uncle says warmly. “I know those are your favorites. I’m sure the customer will enjoy them.”

Zuko pushes open the kitchen’s swinging door with his hip and looks back. “What is it, Uncle?”

Uncle’s face crinkles. “I’m proud of you, nephew,” he says, and Zuko knows he’s not just speaking about the tea.

xiii.

“It’s not too late for you, brother,” Azula says in the catacombs beneath the city. She levels her gaze. “You can still redeem yourself.”

His sister struts closer, leaning towards him, and Uncle pleads. Zuko readies his hands. They shake.

Azula smiles, and it’s cruel. Unafraid. “You can have everything you want.”

Uncle’s asks the question again, from underneath the lake. _What do you want, Prince Zuko_?

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t—

xiv.

The cave is bathed in bright light as the Avatar rises from the ground. His eyes, his arrows, alight. Zuko has seen this before. He knows what comes next.

He falters. Azula does not.

His sister, master of the cold fire, points two fingers at the Avatar. ~~~~

xv.

Zuko kneels in front of Firelord Ozai for the first time in three years, and his father does not strike him.

He’s home.

He’s home he’s home he’s _home_.

xvi.

The sun dips below the caldera in which the capitol city rests, the sky turning from shades of fire to shades of ink, and Zuko cannot sleep. His eyelids grow heavy. A headache is behind his temples. He stares at the Fire Nation canopy above his bed and feels the frustration build.

His bed is too soft. He hasn’t been here in three years. The room stifles him.

Eventually, as the birds begin to sing outside his window, Zuko pulls the blanket from the bed. He lays on the cold stone floor and wishes he could hear Uncle’s snores.

xvii

After three long years, Zuko has everything he could possibly want.

He has his rightful place on his father’s war council. He has Azula’s…tolerance. Rich, fulfilling meals, whenever he asks for them. The finest clothing the Fire Nation can provide. His honor, the love of his people. His father’s approval.

He’s _home_.

(When he goes to the prison, Uncle does not look at him.)

xviii.

Their house on Ember Island is smaller than he remembers.

It’s colder, too. He thinks he catches a whiff of spiced tea brewing in the kitchen, before a cool breeze rattles the windows, and all he can smell is salt. He looks out the window on the second floor to the horizon, where the sea meets the sky. His toes curl in the sand that has made its way onto the floor. He can almost hear Mother calling to him and Azula to _come inside_.

He stares at their family portrait, at his unblemished face, at his mother, and tries not to feel.

“Do you remember,” Zuko asks his sister later, looking down at a tiny handprint, “when we were happy?”

For a moment, Zuko thinks she will laugh at him. Azula sighs. “Come down to the beach.”

xix.

“Within you is the power to restore balance to the world,” Uncle says finally, and his voice is tired.

Within _Zuko_? He blanches.

Uncle walks towards Zuko swiftly, expression grim. Something is in his hands and there is a new pressure in the room. The prison cell feels very small. Zuko stands. His breath comes quick and fast in his chest.

“This is a royal artifact,” he says softly, holding it out to Zuko. “It is supposed to be worn by the Crown Prince.”

(He has only been to one coronation before. It comes to him in flashes. His father, newly deemed Crown Prince Ozai, kneeling before a crowd of thousands. The Fire Mages, standing behind. The new crown is pushed into his father’s hair, and he rises, victorious.)

Zuko blinks.

The artifact Uncle gives him through the prison bars is heavy in his hand. Its old metal glints in the darkness. Uncle’s eyes glint, too.

Zuko wonders how the headpiece would look set in his too-short hair.

xx.

Zuko rips another piece of bread off the loaf stolen from the kitchen and throws it in the pond. The mother turtleduck dips her bill into the water, swimming circles around her babies.

He tries not to think about the headpiece, buried within the chest at the foot of his bed. He tries not to think about what his ancestors have done in the name of the Fire Nation. He tries not to think about what is right, and what is easy.

The loaf runs out. The mother turtleduck cocks her head at him, disappointed. She ushers her fluffy children under her wing, and swims away.

His mother is not here.

xxi.

Zuko leaves the scroll on Mai’s bedside table and knows it’s not enough.

xxii.

“You will listen,” Zuko says before the throne on the Day of Black Sun. He does not kneel.

Father raises one eyebrow, then raises his hand. Zuko flinches. His body remembers what those hands can do. The corner of Father’s mouth curls. The guards follow his orders to disperse into unseen hallways, and his father does not strike him.

“Very well,” Father says without emotion, and Zuko speaks.

The eclipse passes too quickly. Electricity crackles from Ozai’s fingertips. Zuko is not on a mountain, but the lightning strikes anyway.

Zuko redirects, just as Uncle taught him, and feels every volt course through his body.

( _Home is a fistful of lightning_.)

xxiii.

The wind whips Zuko’s hair. He throws another handful of flames into the center and feels the war balloon rise. He can see the Avatar’s bison in the distance.

 _Agni above_ , this may be the stupidest thing he has ever done.

xxiv.

“Thank you for accepting me into your group,” Zuko says, and a smile creeps onto his face. “I won’t let you down.”

Toph raises an eyebrow, and Zuko’s spirits sink. One by one, they turn their backs to him.

xxv.

“Here it is,” Sokka says awkwardly, gesturing around the room. “Home sweet home.”

Zuko sets his pack down on the hard bed. “Thanks.”

“Great!” he says, and he seems to be waiting for something, hovering in the doorway. Zuko tenses— _spirits, is he looking for a fight?_ —but then nods, hopeful, and Sokka deflates a little. “Uh, unpack? Lunch…soon?”

He nods again, and Sokka slinks out the door. Zuko exhales.

The room is sparse. The Air Nomads didn’t believe in keeping material possessions. Zuko pulls out a drawing from his pack. The metal frame clinks upon the headpiece that Zuko has _not_ set in his hair. With a sigh, he sets Uncle’s portrait facing out to the spectacular view. He hears Uncle’s voice for a moment. _Destiny is a funny thing, Prince Zuko_.

He feels a tiny smile draw on his lips. Maybe, just _maybe_ , this could be a home. Of sorts.

Then, a sound at the doorway.

His head jerks up. Katara glares at him from across the room, and he stands. Wary.

“Let me tell you something,” she says, striding across the room, hand on her water skein. Zuko flinches. He remembers what those hands can do. “If you dare to mess this up—”

“Katara, I wouldn’t—”

She thumbs the lid off the skein, and ice rises out in a sharp dagger. He takes a step back before he realizes, and he tries not to see how her eyes narrow at his discomfort. “If you dare to hurt Aang,” she continues, the ice rotating beneath her hand, “you won’t have to worry about your _destiny_ —” and she says the word like it burns her, “—anymore.”

The water unfreezes, sloshing back into the skein. Zuko cannot be sure he didn’t imagine it. His heart hammers in his chest. There isn’t enough air in the room. His eyes widen, and she leaves without another word.

This, at least, is familiar.

xxvi.

The dragons roar from their caves, and they dance in a fire of a thousand colors.

Joy crackles in Zuko’s bones as he feels his spark again. Up on the mountaintop, he looks to his right, and sees Aang smile at him.

He is so, _so_ alive.

xxvii.

Zuko washes dishes, and listens.

“…oh, gliding with the other airbenders, for sure!” Aang rambles. “Or playing air scooter. Or seeing all of the sky bison flying at once! Or playing Pai Sho with Gyatso. Or—”

“We know you could go on forever, Aang,” Katara chuckles. “What about you, Toph? What’s something you miss from home?”

She punches her fist into her hand. “Definitely being the Blind Bandit. Beating all those earthbenders every night was the _best_.”

Sokka stretches out on his sleeping roll. “You were kinda scary in that ring, Toph.”

“ _Only_ in the ring?” Toph retorts, raising an eyebrow. She slams a hand to the ground, and Sokka’s legs fly up from under him.

Sokka scowls as the ground settles. He rearranges his sleeping roll, and Toph’s laughter fades to the soft rustle of the trees and the gentle crackle of the fire.

Then:

“What about you, Zuko?” Aang asks quietly, in that earnest way of his, and everyone stills.

In the shadows, Zuko starts. “I—”

“Come _on_ , Aang,” Katara rolls her eyes. “We don’t need to hear more Fire Nation propaganda.”

Aang’s face falls. “But—”

“Yeah,” Sokka agrees, and Zuko shrinks back. Sokka leans over the fire, and the uneven light casts shadows upon half his face. He drops his voice, mimicking Zuko’s poorly. “‘The Fire Nation is the greatest in the world! No one can be free of our greatness!’ We just don’t need to hear it,” he says, flopping back onto his bed.

Katara pulls her blanket a little tighter over her shoulders. “They’re the ones who ruined our homes, anyway.”

“I—I guess,” Aang acquiesces. He shoots a guilty look over to Zuko.

“Good,” Katara says. Abruptly, she asks Aang, “Have you explored all of the Air Temple yet?”

His face brightens instantly, and the subject of _home_ is dropped.

Zuko doesn’t let himself feel stung. He dumps out their dishwater and stacks their clean bowls. He tells himself he doesn’t know how to answer Aang’s question, anyway.

The fire burns for a long while.

xxviii.

The sky balloon lands gently at the temple. They all tumble out a little singed.

“Dad!” Katara pushes past Zuko. She races to her father.

Hakoda embraces his daughter, and Zuko’s gut twists. “Hi, Katara.”

Katara turns back to them, eyes wide, and Sokka confesses, “We kinda maybe went to a Fire Nation prison.”

Hakoda grabs Sokka’s wrist and pulls him close. He nearly topples over from the weight of his two children. Zuko doesn’t know how to feel.

“Tell us _everything_ ,” Katara says, her voice muffled from within the embrace. “How did you escape? How did Sokka—”

“Yes,” Sokka says smugly.

“—rescue you? Where did you find this ship?”

Hakoda chuckles. “All in good time, Katara.”

“I’ll get the fire started!” Aang says brightly.

Toph stomps her foot, arms crossed, but she’s smiling. “Well _I’m_ not cooking dinner.”

Hakoda doesn’t let his children out of his arms as they make their way over to the fire.

Katara divides up dinner duties. Aang’s in charge of the fire, which leaves Zuko with teamaking. _Don’t mess this up_ , Katara’s glare says, and he backs away. He retrieves the teapot from their collection of dishes. It’s blue. Ceramic. It feels fragile in his hands.

He looks across the temple. The light twinkles in the distance. Aang sits before the fire, hands out. He laughs at something Sokka says, some long-spun, exaggerated story, Zuko is sure. Katara leans against her father, a soft smile on her face as she stirs the soup in the pot with her bending. Toph loudly and messily chops whatever Katara hands her. Suki steps in quickly to relieve Toph of sous chef-ery and hands Sokka a knife, telling him to _get chopping_.

There is a twinge in his chest. He makes it one step backwards ( _he isn’t a part of this, he knows he’s barely welcome_ ) when—

“Zuko!” Sokka yells.

Zuko yelps. He doesn’t drop the teapot, but it’s a near thing.

Suki nudges Sokka in the arm. “ _Sokka._ ”

“Sorry,” Sokka shrugs. He squints into the darkness. “How’s that tea coming along?”

Zuko exhales. “How do you feel about jasmine?”

xxix.

Zuko watches Aang step through the form carefully, just as he’s taught him. Right foot, then left. Kick, duck. Arms up, elbows out. Switch weight to the other foot. Aang’s concentrating, Zuko can tell. His tongue is sticking out.

Aang finishes the form and leans over, breathing hard. “How was that, Sifu Hotman?”

“Well,” Zuko begins, and he sees Aang’s whole form slouch. He reconsiders his phrasing. “Your first stance was excellent, and you finished it properly,” he says. Aang beams, slouch gone, and Zuko knows he picked the right approach. “The middle of the form could do with some more polishing. Elbows in.”

Aang nods enthusiastically. He wipes his forehead with a towel. “I’ll get it next time!”

He steadies himself, and begins the form again. He keeps his elbows in.

“You’re working him hard,” says a deep voice behind Zuko. He spins. Hakoda of the Southern Water Tribe stands in the doorway.

“Yes, sir,” Zuko says stiffly. He’s very aware of Hakoda’s large presence. “He’s improving.”

A brief smile flashes across Hakoda’s features as he comes to stand next to Zuko. He watches Aang practice. “Now, I don’t know much about firebending, Prince Zuko—”

“Just Zuko is fine, sir,” he says quickly.

“—but should that plant be on fire?” Hakoda points.

Zuko looks. Sure enough, a small palm bush growing out of a crack in the floor is on fire. He sighs.

“Are you going to put that out, Aang?” Zuko calls. Aang looks over, pausing his latest form. He glances to where Hakoda is pointing. A panicked look passes across his features before he bends some water out of a nearby pail and dumps it on the fire.

“It was an accident!” Aang shouts. “I got distracted.”

“Why don’t we call it a day?” Zuko says, gesturing to the still smoking plant.

Aang brightens. “Great, thanks Zuko!” he yells back. Aang grabs his shirt. “I’m going to go to the top of the temple! See ya!” He’s gone in a little gust of wind before Zuko can say another word.

Hakoda chuckles as Aang runs off. Zuko watches him, wary, but Hakoda simply breathes in deeply. He takes in the room. “The Air Nomads really knew how to live, didn’t they?” The space is airy and open. The late afternoon sun makes squares on the floor. In the distance, Zuko can hear birds chirping. Hakoda breathes in again, and when he exhales, a smile is on his face. “I wanted to thank you, Zuko.”

“I—for what?”

Hakoda turns. His face is open and easy to read, and Zuko doesn’t trust it. “You broke me out of prison. You reunited me with my children. You brought me home to them.”

Zuko freezes. “It was all Sokka’s idea, he—”

Hakoda _tsks_ and Zuko falls silent. “Sokka is a great warrior, that is true. But we couldn’t have pulled off our escape without you. I will never forget that.”

“I—”

He puts his hand on Zuko’s shoulder. Zuko tries not to flinch at the motion. “Any past mistakes—”

“I’m not going to sell you out to my father, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he says quickly, and he’s tense underneath Hakoda’s hand.

Hakoda’s eyes crinkle in a sad smile. He sees right through Zuko, the way Uncle used to. All the breath escapes Zuko’s chest.

“No, you’re not,” he says simply, stepping back to give Zuko space, and that wasn’t what Zuko was expecting at all. “I think you’ve proven yourself time and time again.”

“I’ve tried to, sir,” Zuko says quietly. He looks away. “I don’t think Katara believes me.”

“My daughter has a strong will. I’m sure you’re aware,” he says with a knowing look in his eyes, and Zuko nods. “She’ll come around, too.”

“I just—” Zuko sighs. He doesn’t know why he’s still talking. “I don’t want to mess it all up.”

Hakoda raises an eyebrow. “Mess what up?”

“All—” he gestures at the air, at nothing, at everything, “—all of this.”

“I’ve made many mistakes in my past,” Hakoda says, and his voice is gentle. “I will make many more in my future. We all will.”

“How do you live with that?” Zuko asks softly, and thinks of Uncle.

“To err is to be human,” Hakoda replies like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “I have forgiven you. My children will come around. But I think you still have to forgive yourself.”

Zuko’s throat is tight. There is a pressure behind his eyes. A breeze rolls in through the open windows as they stand still in the sunlight. The birds flock in the skies, and the world moves on.

xxx.

The Air Temple shakes with Azula’s cold fire, and Toph carves a cave out of the mountainside.

Zuko jumps over the debris. His sister is angry. Zuko’s seen her angry before, but not like this. She’s unfeeling. Rage billows out of her fingertips, and he fights Azula with everything he has.

He jumps. He’s surprised when he lands.

xxxi.

They stand in the rain, back to back.

“Do you know who I am?” Katara asks, and her eyes are daggers. The rain collects in a dome around them. She forces the man to his knees with a flick of her wrist, and Zuko counts his few lucky stars that she hasn’t done the same to him.

( _Home is his knees on the cold stone_ —

No. Not anymore.)

The rain turns to knives, a moment later. They rush towards the man huddled on the ground. Zuko’s breath catches in his throat.

The icicles suspend before him, and then the rain begins again.

Katara’s mother is not here.

xxxii.

In the moonlight, Sokka nears the front door. His sword is out. He glances back furtively to the group, and Suki nods, stepping closer. Sokka holds up three fingers and readies his sword. Behind them, water streams in Katara’s hands, a determined crease in her brow. _Two_ , Sokka’s fingers say, and Suki takes a deep breath. _One_. Aang and Toph stand shoulder to shoulder.

Zuko sighs, and pushes past them. He shoves the door open. “I told you, my family hasn’t stayed here for years. Not since we were actually happy. It should be fine.”

“It’s still the _Firelord’s house_!” Sokka stage whispers. His sword drops.

“Yeah,” Katara agrees, shrinking back. “What if he’s, you know… _home_?”

Aang goes white as a sheet.

Suki smiles gently at them, but steps across the threshold to join Zuko. “There’s clearly no one here.”

“There could,” Sokka says, tiptoeing forward, “be _secret Fire Nation soldiers_!” He slashes forward with his sword and decapitates a nearby plant.

“We can take them,” Aang says seriously. “But the Firelord…”

“Suki’s right,” Toph rolls her eyes. “I would be able to see if anyone was here. And it’s empty except for us, doofus.”

Katara smiles, shaking her head. “We’re being silly. It’s late, and we’re all hungry. Come on. I’m sure we can be comfortable here.”

The five of them stand in the foyer to the old Ember Island home. A partially burned scrap of paper drifts to their feet. An empty portrait frame hangs on wall ahead. The tapestries are ripped.

“It’s…” Suki says quietly. Sokka shushes her.

“I thought the Firelord lived in a palace,” Toph says bluntly. “This place is kind of a dump.”

Zuko stares at the ground and smells spiced tea.

Katara’s eyes are wide as she takes in the destruction. “When did you say your family was here last, Zuko?”

“A long time ago,” he says. He swallows. The scent of spiced tea is gone.

Aang steps to the front of the group. “I’m going to find the best room,” he says, breaking the tension.

“Race you!” Sokka yells, taking off after Aang. Suki and Katara aren’t far behind.

Zuko exhales shakily.

“Being here is hard for you,” Toph says behind him. Zuko jumps. “Isn’t it?”

“I—”

She flops down on a fainting couch in the corner of the room. “Your heartbeat is always fast, Sparky. But it shot through the roof the moment we walked in here.”

“The last time I was here, a couple of months ago, I—I wasn’t in a good place,” he says. He sits next to her.

“You _were_ in the Fire Nation. That’s not a good place.”

The corner of Zuko’s mouth pulls upwards. “You know what I mean, Toph.”

“No,” she says, sitting up. Zuko freezes. He knows she cannot be staring at him, but it feels that way. “I don’t know.”

He hangs his head, plays with his fingers. “Toph—”

“Spit it out, Sparky,” she says. Her mouth is a flat line, and Zuko’s breath stops.

“I used to be happy here. My family—” his voice catches, and he starts again. “So much has changed.”

Toph leans back against the wall, hands behind her head. “I miss my family, too, Zuko.”

“What?” Zuko starts. “No, I’ve changed. I’m better now! It’s not like th—”

She smiles. “We know, Sparky. You’re not going to turn us over to the Firelord anytime soon.”

“Oh,” he says, and his voice is small. “Right.”

“I just meant,” Toph says thoughtfully, “that it’s okay. My parents didn’t know what was best for me, either. They kept me locked away from the rest of the world. They thought I was helpless.” Her fist clenches, and the metal picture frame on the wall bends.

“I’m sorry,” Zuko says, because he can’t think of the right words.

She shrugs. “It’s better for me that I’m here. I can be my best self. But that doesn’t mean I can’t miss parts of them, too. I remember going for picnics in the garden when I was little. Those were nice.”

His voice is far away. He stares at the bent picture frame. “My mother built sandcastles with us. Azula was tiny. Father—”

His voice fails.

“Metal isn’t like earth. It can take different forms,” Toph says. She flexes her hand, and the picture frame settles back into its original shape. A fraction of a second later, the picture frame drops from the wall, all the metal crumpled into a smooth ball. She makes a fist, and a tiny metal dragon is born. “All of the forms are different, but the original material is the same. People are kind of like metal,” she adds, almost as an afterthought. ~~~~

“My father tried to kill me,” he says suddenly, and he almost laughs. His chest is tight. “Are you telling me that’s just one of his _forms_?”

“No,” Toph says. She has gone very still. “People are complex. They can do terrible things, and they can do things that make you miss them. They are still people.”

Zuko breathes. He feels like crying. “You sound like my uncle.”

Toph shrugs again, but he can see the smile on her face. “He makes good tea.”

xxxiii.

The red-orange rug is faded in Zuko’s old room in the beach house. The rocker in the corner, where his mother once told him bedtime tales, sits empty. The bed is too small by several inches. The duvet has a fine layer of dust.

He walks to the bedside table and picks up the copy of the family portrait. He stares down at a tiny Azula, a beaming smile on her face, held by his mother. Her hair frames her face. His father looks like a replica of every court painting, but no crown rests in his hair. His hand falls on Zuko’s shoulders.

He feels the weight and jumps. He turns quickly, hands up, but no one is there.

His pulse thuds in his ears. He turns back to the table and meets his own gaze. The mirror set above paints a different family portrait: Zuko, alone.

The door creaks open behind him. “Zuko!” Suki says, popping her head into the room. Zuko finds her in the mirror. “We’re about to go down to the beach, if you want to join.”

“I’ll be right there.”

“Great,” Suki smiles. “We’ll wait for you.” She leaves the door open behind her.

His family stares out at him from the portrait, all rigid shoulders and sepia tones. His heart aches. _You are a disappointment, Zuko,_ his father’s stern gaze says. _You can never come home_.

The laughter of his friends down the hallway drowns out his father’s voice. Zuko sets the portrait face down on the table. The door closes quietly behind him, and he doesn’t look back.

xxxiv.

The sand is warm between his toes.

Sokka makes a terrible sandcastle. Toph makes a great one. Suki laughs at both, and kisses Sokka on the cheek. Katara and Aang bend the ocean. The waves grow tall as they surf towards the sand.

Zuko smiles.

xxxv.

Zuko wakes, a strangled scream in his throat and a phantom burning on his face.

He sighs and flops back onto his bed. It’s late. Or early, rather. The room is bathed in the half-gray light of the predawn sky. It’s hours until sunrise. Zuko knows he’s not going to fall back asleep.

His feet find the kitchen. He pushes the door open, thinking of the jasmine tea Uncle would make him after nightmares, and stops abruptly.

“Hi, Zuko,” Katara sighs tiredly. She’s perched at the table, head in her hands. A cup of tea sits before her. It’s gone long cold.

“Hey,” he says, voice rough with lack of sleep. He hesitates in the doorway. “I can go, if you’d rather I—”

She waves him through. “It’s fine.”

He steps inside and turns his mind off. His body knows what to do. His hands find the kettle, the water, the tea leaves. He steps through the motions methodically. For a moment ~~,~~ he’s back at the Jasmine Dragon.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” Katara asks gently as Zuko sets a new cup of tea in front of her.

He sits across the table. “Something like that.”

Katara clasps her hands around the tea and stares into the steam. “I couldn’t stop thinking about—well, about the future. Aang has to face the Firelord,” she says, clearing her throat. “We all must.”

Zuko swallows hard, and the phantom burning is back. “Yeah,” he says, and that’s all he can manage.

“It’s—it should be an honor,” Katara says in a small voice, “but it doesn’t feel that way.”

They sit in the kitchen together for a moment, drinking their tea in silence. The jasmine tastes different than the tea they would make in Ba Sing Se, but it burns his tongue in the same way. Zuko misses Uncle’s voice.

Katara hunches over her tea, and asks, “was your father always—?”

“A monster?” Zuko interrupts, and a hollow laugh finds its way out of his chest.

“I wasn’t going to say it like that—”

“Yes, he was,” he cuts her off. She looks up sharply. He sighs, rubs a hand over his eyes, through his hair. “No. I don’t know.”

“He’s the Firelord!” Katara says. “Of course he was evil, Zuko. He—”

The words come out before he can stop them. “He was a monster, and I loved him.”

Her gaze softens. “Zuko—”

“I shouldn’t have,” he backpedals. He closes his eyes. There’s a pressure in the back of his throat, behind his eyes, at his temples. He pushes on. “When I was chasing the Avatar—chasing you—that’s all I could think of. I’d be home, and I’d have his love. But I don’t think he ever loved me. I don’t think he’s ever loved anyone. But he’s my father, and he should—he _should_ have—”

And he’s crying, and he doesn’t know how to stop. He buries his head in his hands. His shoulders shake.

“You’re right, Zuko,” Katara says gently. From across the table, she puts a hand on his arm. “You deserved better. He should have loved you.” ~~~~

The sun comes up, slowly. It turns the kitchen into shades of amber and gold. Zuko’s tears dry, but he still aches. He mourns, for himself, for what could have been.

Katara doesn’t leave. He’s grateful.

xxxvi.

Zuko rises with the sun. He squints as the light filters in. Feels it on his skin, feels the fire stir beneath. He forces his body out of bed.

He sighs. He may rise with the sun, but Aang does not.

Zuko finds the room Aang’s sleeping in, three doors down. He nudges him awake. The boy rubs his eyes, sees Zuko, and feigns being asleep once more. Momo cuddles deeper into Aang’s blankets, and Zuko sighs again.

“Twenty hotsquats for every minute you stay in bed,” Zuko says softly. Aang makes a face. He slides out of his blankets a moment later, following Zuko out, but not before he tucks Momo back in.

They assume their positions in the training space. Aang is getting better, Zuko appraises. They step through the sets together as the sun grows stronger on the horizon.

“All right,” Zuko calls eventually. He wipes his brow. “We can pause for breakfast. You’re improving.”

Aang grins. He grabs his tunic. “Thanks, Sifu Hotman!”

Zuko pinches the bridge of his nose. He pulls out a water skein. “Don’t—don’t call me that.”

Aang hops over to Zuko and perches on a boulder in the courtyard. He furrows his brow, as he does sometimes. “Was learning firebending like this for you, too?”

“I—” Zuko stops. “Like what?”

“You know…” Aang drags his feet. He looks up at Zuko. “You take your time. You correct me when I do something wrong. I thought you’d be all mean—” Zuko frowns, and Aang backtracks. “Not mean! Just…stern! Or angry, or—oh, no that’s worse! Um—”

“It’s okay,” Zuko says quickly, and Aang looks relieved.

“Well?” Aang asks a moment later, and Zuko remembers he’s twelve. “Learning firebending in the Fire Nation! What was it like?”

Zuko opens his mouth, and nothing comes out.

(He is five, and he can only produce a single flame. He is seven, and his father frowns at him from across the throne room. He is ten, and Azula is better than him, and her laughter sears more than fire. He is twelve, and his firebending teacher strikes him when his form is wrong. He is thirteen, and his father burns his face.)

“Zuko?” Aang waves a hand in front of his face. He starts, snapping back to the present, and Aang’s eyes widen. “Are you okay?”

“Sorry,” Zuko says quietly.

“I didn’t mean to make you sad.”

“No, I—” Zuko says, and then tries again. “It’s okay. Learning firebending was…difficult. My sister was always better than me. It took me years to master the basics.”

Aang’s eyes widen. “But you’re a master!”

“I wasn’t always,” Zuko replies. He swallows. “Teachers in the Fire Nation are strict.”

“Like you,” Aang says seriously. “You always wake me up early and make me do hotsquats.”

“Yes,” Zuko agrees, fighting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose again, “but even more so. The teachers I had didn’t—” he falters for a moment, “—didn’t accept imperfection.”

Aang’s eyes get even wider. “But you were learning! You don’t get mad at me when I do something wrong.”

“I try not to,” Zuko sighs. Finally, he says, “My teachers didn’t accept imperfection, and my father wasn’t lenient.”

Aang sobers. They sit for a moment, feeling the sun. Zuko closes his eyes.

“I’m sorry you had to go through that,” Aang says quietly, a moment later.

“Yeah,” Zuko says. He looks out at the horizon. “Me, too.”

xxxvii.

On stage, when his double yells about honor ( _about going home_ ), Zuko sinks lower in his seat. He watches himself burn to death in a paper fire. His countrymen laugh.

 _Agni_ , his scar is not on the wrong side.

xxxviii.

Zuko can’t stop mulling the play over, even during firebending practice.

“What are we working on today, Sifu Hotman?”

_(I must regain my honor.)_

Zuko shakes his head to clear it of the actor’s voice, but it has melded with his own. The words spin through his head. He sighs, looking over to Aang. “Your advanced firebending form could use some practice.”

Aang nods solemnly, and steps to the first stance. Zuko mirrors him, and as one, they step through the form.

Right foot, then left. ( _I must capture the Avatar._ ) Inhale. ( _I am your loyal son._ ) Exhale. ( _Father, please._ ) Kick, duck. ( _I cannot go home._ ) Arms up, elbows in. ( _I hate you, Uncle._ ) Prepare.

Two fireballs launch from their fists as they finish the form in identical stances. Aang’s is strong. Powerful. Zuko’s—Zuko’s is not.

Aang falters, breaking his form. “What happened?”

Zuko stares at his treacherous hands. “Aang, I—”

“Did you lose your fire again?” Aang says quickly, rushing over to Zuko. He stares up at him with wide eyes. “But we’ve already met the firebending masters! You can’t lose your fire now. The Comet is so soon!”

“I think I need a minute,” Zuko says, and his head is full, pulsing. ( _I want to go home._ ) He steps back from Aang. “Why don’t you train with Toph this afternoon? We can pick up tomorrow.”

He bows quickly, finishing their session. Aang mimics the gesture, the concern plain on his face. “I understand. I’m nervous about the Comet, too.”

Zuko shakes his head. “No, it’s not that, I—” he sighs, and he means to elaborate, he _does_ , but the words just don’t come.

Aang pats Zuko’s elbow. “Meditation helps,” he says, and then he’s gone, yelling for Toph, light on his feet as always.

Zuko sighs, finds his swords, and goes to meditate.

He pushes himself through the forms without mercy. Across the courtyard, Toph and Aang wrap up their training session with a laugh. Zuko ignores the calls for dinner. The sun sinks low in the sky as he goes again and again.

Sweat drips from his brow, slicking his hands as he finishes another set. His breath comes hard and fast from his chest. He stares down the makeshift training dummy he’s been slashing at for hours, and Firelord Ozai’s poorly drawn face stares back.

( _Father, please_ —)

He aches, but not enough. Not yet. With a grimace, he grips the hilts of his swords tighter and readies his stance.

“I think that post has had enough, don’t you?”

Zuko whirls, pulse racing.

“I mean,” Sokka says from the edge of the courtyard, one eyebrow raised, “don’t let me stop you.”

“You already have,” Zuko says, rolling his eyes. He turns back to the training post. He flexes his hands around the hilts again, readying himself.

Sokka steps out of the shadows. “The play got to you too, huh?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Zuko lies. ( _I cannot go home._ ) He does not look at Sokka.

“Aang and Katara have been all…off since we got back,” Sokka continues, ignoring Zuko. He leans against the training dummy. “Like…not talking to each other _off_. It makes a guy uneasy, let me tell you. And then there’s you!” Sokka gestures wildly at Zuko. “Skipping dinner and training all day like some sort of madman! What are you trying to do, capture the Avatar… _again_?”

Zuko sighs, lowering his swords. “Sokka, I—”

“I know you’re not trying to capture Aang anymore or whatever,” Sokka rambles. “It’s just weird to train _all day_ , you know?”

Zuko stares. “That’s all Aang has done for weeks.”

“That’s different. That’s _Aang_ ,” Sokka says, waving a hand. “He’s gotta face the Firelord. But you? You’re just—just a normal guy! You don’t have anything to—”

“Firelord Ozai is my father,” Zuko deadpans. “What do you want, Sokka?”

He shrugs. “I just thought you might like a sparring partner,” he says, and Zuko catches the glint of his sword out of the corner of his eye, “considering that the training post can’t exactly fight back.”

Zuko feels the edge of his mouth pull up. “Are you sure you’ll do much better?”

“Hey,” Sokka protests. “I am a Southern Water Tribe _warrior_ , I’ll have you know, and—”

Zuko sighs and swings his swords at Sokka.

He quickly deflects, forcing Zuko on the defensive. “Why would you—”

“Just stop talking,” Zuko hisses, arms aching from holding Sokka’s sword back, “and fight me.”

And they are a whirl of flashing metal.

Sokka is nimble, dodging quickly. His asteroid-forged sword is strong in his hands, and Zuko pants with the effort of keeping him at bay. He fights like he has something to protect, like he has something precious right behind him or in his chest or across the world.

Zuko is desperate. His shoes scuffle in the dirt. He gets out of the way of Sokka’s sword, but nearly too late every time. The edge clears his throat by millimeters. He fights like he is in the Earth Kingdom, like he is a refugee, like he has nothing to lose.

Finally, Zuko has Sokka flat on his back, pinned between his knees. They are both covered in dust. He holds his swords to Sokka’s throat. His muscles ache. “Do you yield?” he asks, and he is so tired.

“Not yet,” Sokka says with a grin. He rolls, shoving Zuko’s swords. In a flash, Sokka disarms him. Zuko lunges across the stone, skinning his elbows, but Sokka is faster. The swords skitter across the ground.

His pulse thuds in his ears.

Zuko pushes himself to a kneeling position. He looks up, and Sokka is before him. His sword gleams in the darkening sky.

“Do you yield?” Sokka asks through heaving breaths.

Zuko smirks from his position on the ground. “Do you?”

Sokka steps closer, saying nothing. Zuko begins to rise, half-formed thoughts of grabbing Sokka’s weapon, but Sokka reaches out.

It happens quickly.

He shoves Zuko back. He keeps him in place. Zuko’s knees slam back onto the cold stone. Sokka’s hand knots in Zuko’s hair for the briefest of moments. He holds the blade at Zuko’s throat.

“Do you yield?” Sokka repeats, and suddenly Zuko can’t breathe.

( _I am your loyal son, Father. I will not fight—_

His father’s ring catches in Zuko’s hair. He pulls Zuko’s face up. Tears streak salt down Zuko’s cheeks. All he can hear is his own heartbeat.

 _Father, please—_ )

“—all right? Zuko!”

He blinks.

Sokka is crouching next to him. His sword is long forgotten. “Zuko? Are you hurt? Should I get Katara?”

Zuko swallows. He tastes metal. “I—I’m fine,” he says, and his voice shakes. He makes to stand. His legs feel like jelly, and Sokka is there, guiding his body back to the ground.

He almost feels as though he’s watching the scene from afar.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you, or anything,” Sokka says softly. He pulls out a blade of grass from between the stones and twiddles it between his thumbs. “I’m sorry.”

Zuko shakes his head. He still can’t take a deep breath. “It’s not your fault.”

“Well, I did something,” Sokka says. He stares at Zuko, eyes wide. Waiting. “I didn’t mean to.”

Zuko pulls his knees to his chest. He smells burnt flesh for the briefest of moments. “I—” he tries, and realizes he’s never talked about it before.

“If it was about that dumb play,” Sokka begins hesitantly, looking to Zuko, waiting to be cut off, “or about what I said, I didn’t mean to upset you. It was just… _weird_ seeing you train like that.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Zuko says, and he wants to laugh. “Though the play was stupid. You’re right about that.”

Sokka lets out a breath. “At least the special effects were decent. And the actor that played you was pretty good. Funny, sometimes, even!” Sokka says, and the shadow of a smile crosses his face. “All that stuff about your honor really got the audience rolling,” he continues. “Not as funny as the actor who played me, but still. Decent.”

Zuko cringes. “That’s what I kept thinking about. Earlier.”

“About how hilarious I am?”

“No,” he says, and doesn’t look at Sokka. “How the audience perceived me. How I was portrayed.”

Sokka waves a hand. “It wasn’t, you know, _you_ you up on that stage, Zuko. Those people don’t know you.”

“They cheered when I died, Sokka,” he replies hollowly. “Fire Nation citizens, cheering for the death of their prince.” He rests his chin on his knees. “My scar wasn’t even on the right side.”

“Okay,” Sokka tries, and Zuko can tell he doesn’t understand. “That’s—that’s pretty bad.”

The sky fades from a deep crimson to shades of lilac and twilight-blue, and Zuko’s bones ache. He’s sure Sokka’s do too. The stone of the courtyard is unforgiving.

“It was my father,” Zuko says eventually, barely above his breath. He tries to keep his tone clinical. Separated. He stares up at the darkening sky. “I was thirteen. There was a crowd. I don’t remember if they cheered or not.”

He hears Sokka’s intake of breath. Feels the weight of the stare on his left side. “ _Tui and La_ ,” Sokka swears.

Zuko doesn’t let himself look at Sokka. He curls into himself. “I begged him,” he says, and there’s a lump in his throat, there’s a pressure behind his eyes. “He held out his hand,” Zuko chokes out, “and he—”

He stops. His mouth tastes like ash.

“He shouldn’t—that’s—” Sokka starts, and his voice cracks, and Zuko can hear the horror there, the _my father would never_.

“That’s—that’s why I reacted like—” Zuko stops. “That’s why I reacted.” He stares into the night and doesn’t elaborate. Sokka knows what he means.

“I’m sorry,” Sokka says finally, getting his voice under control. “I’m— _spirits_ —I’m so sorry.”

“You would have found out sooner or later,” Zuko shrugs, chest tight. He tries not to feel. “My countrymen hold no love for me.”

“They will,” Sokka says, and his tone is fierce. Zuko turns to him. His eyes are rimmed with red, but his mouth is set. “When you are Firelord, they will.”

The ghost of a smile crosses Zuko’s face. “I hope so.”

The twilight-blue sky fades to indigo before Sokka says, “You know what he did was wrong, right? Your father, I mean. That was—that was wrong on _every_ level.”

“It—it took me a long time,” Zuko says softly, “but yes.”

Sokka leans against Zuko. He freezes at the contact, then relaxes. Sokka is warm. Zuko exhales. A weight lifts off his chest.

Together, they watch the first stars of the night twinkle into existence high above.

xxxix.

Aang disappears in the days before Sozin’s Comet. Zuko tries not to panic. They cannot face his father alone. They cannot face him like this. His knees shake.

( _Home is a fistful of lightning_.)

His friends look to him and ask him to do the impossible. He’s good with the impossible. He’s done it a thousand times before, across continents and oceans.

When June shakes her head and delivers the news— _your friend’s gone_ —Zuko ignores the pain. He squares his shoulders and does what he should have done months ago.

xl.

The night fades into day, and Zuko does not move.

Uncle stirs, stretches, yawns, and Zuko feels his blood pressure spike. His pulse races in his ears.

“I—” Zuko starts. He fails. Takes a breath. Stares at the tent behind Uncle’s head, and tries again. “I know you may have mixed feelings about seeing me.”

Uncle does not turn. Uncle does not look at him.

Zuko’s heart sinks. He lowers his head and bares his soul. “I’m sorry for what I did, Uncle. I’m—I’m so sorry. It was wrong. It was shameful,” he all but whispers, and he doesn’t know if he wants Uncle to turn, he doesn’t know if he wants Uncle to see him. “I’m not asking for your forgiveness, because I don’t deserve it, but—”

And Uncle turns.

He reaches out for him. Uncle’s hand extends, and Zuko freezes. He cannot breathe. The room is too small. The walls are too close. ( _He should have known, begging never helps. His father was right. Suffering is his only teacher, and he a poor pupil._ ) _Agni_ , he tried, he begged, he loves Uncle, he didn’t ask for this, not again, _please_ —

Wait.

Uncle pulls him into a tight embrace, and Zuko shatters and melts and reforms in an instant, and they are both crying.

“How can you forgive so easily?” Zuko whispers into Uncle’s shirt, and he feels Uncle smile.

“I was never angry, nephew,” Uncle says, and pulls away to look Zuko in the eyes, and Zuko is _home_. “Sad to think you could have lost your way. But _never_ angry. Never, with you.”

“I did,” Zuko says. “I did lose my way, Uncle.”

Uncle smiles a sad smile. “But you found it again. On your own. And you made your way here. I have never been prouder of you, Zuko.”

Uncle pulls Zuko close again, and he doesn’t let go.

xli.

They sky is red, the streets are empty, and Azula stands before the throne. Triumphant. Unhinged. The crown is inches from her hair when his feet scuff the ground.

Zuko raises his head, and Azula accepts.

xlii.

Azula points two fingers at him. Like father, like daughter. Lightning crackles from her, from the sky, from the earth. He exhales. He doesn’t flinch.

His sister moves her hand to her left. Katara’s eyes widen. Zuko gets in the way.

This time, he doesn’t redirect.

( _Home is a fistful of_ —)

xliii.

Zuko opens his eyes. He aches. It goes deeper than the wound.

Katara pools water at his chest. When he can stand, she helps him to his feet. They go to find their friends, go to find the survivors—the _victors_ —and he feels like crying.

xliv.

The crowd stretches far into the horizon, a new sea in shades of blue and red and green. The gongs ring out, and Zuko steps onto the dais with Aang. A cheer rises into the skies.

Zuko kneels, for the last time, before his nation. ( _His father cannot strike him. Not here. Not ever again_.) The crown is pushed into his too-short hair. He closes his eyes for a fraction of a second. He feels the weight of it, the responsibility.

“All hail, Firelord Zuko!”

Zuko rises at last.

xlv.

As he stands on the balcony of his chambers, a warm breeze in the air, he feels the warm embrace of the Fire Nation.

Home is long meetings with generals, organizing war reparations. Home is a pot of tea always brewing in the palace kitchen. Home is Uncle, eyes crinkling as he looks at Zuko. Home is Mai, smirking at him, leaning into him. Home is Toph, punching his arm and dragging him out of dreadful conversations. Home is Sokka and Suki, sneaking about the capitol and making him take a break. Home is Katara, dousing him in a sphere of water with a laugh. Home is Aang at his side as they usher in a new era of peace.

He stands at the balcony and looks out. The sun is rising. He is only sixteen, and his bones don’t ache as they once did.

Firelord Zuko is home.


End file.
